


Colour In Your Cheeks

by boxofbreath



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fantrolls, Gen, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3913339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxofbreath/pseuds/boxofbreath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grifan Neilos listens to his moirail and considers his impending martyrdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colour In Your Cheeks

**Author's Note:**

> "Have you got colour in your cheeks?  
> Do you ever get that fear that you can't shift  
> The type that sticks around like something in your teeth?"  
> Do I Wanna Know, Arctic Monkeys

It's always the shape of his face you notice first. The profile, the harsh curve from his nose to his brow, the angle of his chin. Never the paint, the first thing that you should see, the eternal mark of his kind, irritatingly permanent for a thin, smudgy coat of some cheap gunk he picked up from a bargain bin. Then the proud sweep of his horns, far too elegant for the mess of hair they emerge from. It's always too long, his hair, and you nag him to get it cut. He never does, just pushes it out of his eyes and grins that lopsided grin.

As you watch him, his irregular path back and forth as the assorted trolls in front of him watch in unconcealed boredom, you wonder at him: his endless, pointless enthusiasm for his beloved messiahs. You asked him, once, whether he really believed that somewhere two clown-gods looked down on his every movement. He'd smirked, of course, and answered, with the sing-song tone you use when speaking to a wriggler. "They aren't looking down, little bro. Not down. Out." And your obvious confusion just made him smirk more. "They're in there, bro," he'd say, pointing with one paint-smudged finger to your bloodpusher. " _Inside_."

You tune out of his voice then and into his voice now, low and melodious and raised just a little above speaking level in a prayer of thanks. "We are thankful for the miraculous. For that which should work and don’t, and that which shouldn’t work and do. For that which no-one knows why or what or how. For the impossible and the useless. For the gifts of our messiahs, who are in truth and honesty we and also we."

The audience, sleepy and ignorant, dutifully repeat. "WE ARE THANKFUL."

You tune out again and return to your nightdreams. Somewhere in the depths of your mind, a knot is tightened, a stair ascended, a trapdoor opened and... oblivion. Martyrdom. So sweet. So easy. Would he really miss you?, you wonder sometimes. You can never tell what's going on behind those shadow-rimmed eyes. Does he really care? Is he as achingly, achingly pale for you as you are for him, so pale that sometimes it hurts to think about? You hope not. 

But by the way he looks at you, the way he holds you, like nothing else matters, makes you seriously doubt it. He needs you just as much as you need him. You know that. You've always known. Ever since you finally met him in person after all those  _sweeps_ knowing him only by ugly grape text on your screen. Ever since you first saw that profile against the harsh technicolour of a sunset sky.

You can't bear the thought of leaving him behind when you go.


End file.
